


Fall in Time

by somesilverreply



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/F, Lesbian AU, Slow Burn, brooke is a talent agent, dancer! brooke and dancer!vanessa, listen i will never get enough of this power dynamic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-25 11:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19744906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somesilverreply/pseuds/somesilverreply
Summary: Brooke has always been a perfectionist. A dancer.It was as if her long legs had an agreement with the Earth beneath her to paint it with her plies.Dance, to her, has always been about poise and grace.So when she meets Vanessa - a dancer who possesses anything but - she's left wondering how she managed to get it so wrong.





	1. pointed

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a long time admirer of the writers in this fandom and I was itching to contribute this idea I've been sitting on! I simply can't get enough of lesbian AU Brooke and Vanessa and I wanted to create something that combined my love for performing with these two ladies. Definitely want to make this into a series so I'd love to hear any feedback! This also is not beta-d so I apologize in advance.  
> NOTE: While I do dance I am not a Dancer TM so please forgive any mistakes I've made in regards to dance terminology / injuries, etc.  
> Enjoy!

When Brooke Lynn Hytes was seven years old, she tripped.

When Brooke Lynn Hytes was seven years old, 8 days, 2 hours, and 13 minutes old her mother told her she should be more graceful.

When Brooke Lynn Hytes was seven years old, 8 days, 2 hours, and 14 minutes old she was enrolled in her first ballet class.

She still remembers every detail. The smell of her teacher’s perfume as she grand jete’d across the room. The way her feet felt like they didn’t belong to her the second she went en pointe for the first time. The way the other boys and girls in her class watched with envy as she was the first to land her pirouette. It was as if her long legs had an agreement with the Earth beneath her to paint it with her plies.

Even her mother began to appreciate her beauty. It was as if she had finally felt free enough to be successful and accepting of the warmth around her instead of the icy cold she had trapped herself in.

Because Brooke was beautiful. She wasn’t just a good dancer, she was an artist. She created feeling with the nuance of her footwork. She was articulate, intelligently elegant, and proud.

She was.

When Brooke Lynn Hytes was 33 years, 3 months, 19 days and 1 hour old she was tired.

Minutes blurred into hours and it felt like the sensation of her foot falling asleep had taken it upon itself to bombard the numbness in her brain. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her job, per say, she liked it just fine. Soon after it became clear dancing professionally didn’t seem like it would quite make into her thirties, she had to start planning and make choices. It wasn’t easy, though. From the time Brooke was old enough to comprehend the fleeting nature of having a career in dance, she told herself she was ready to accept the limited timeline. Work her ass off as a young adult and thrive in her twenties, and slow down by the time she was approaching thirty.

But it hadn’t been such a natural transition, as life never goes exactly how you plan – a nightmare for Brooke, who’s entire existence until that point had been centered around perfection and precision.

When she was 29 years, 3 months, 6 days, and 21 hours old, admittedly hungover and practically injecting espresso in her veins, she was on tour with her dance troupe. They had been touring all over the country for the greater half of a year, and they were about three-quarters of the way done with this leg before they were to head to Europe, one of Brooke’s lifelong dreams. She’d formed an early fascination with European culture and had taken it upon herself to memorize the capitals by age 9, impressing no one but patting her own pride on the back nonetheless.

She and her troupe were sat in a Starbucks of some Who Cares town, Ohio when she finally felt herself feel her age. She was tired and a little nauseated, the growing twinge in the crux of her foot finally making its appearance loud and clear.

Brooke was all about perfection. All about poise and obsessed with maintaining the only thing in life she’d ever felt like she belonged to.

But that night, for the first time in a long time, for some reason unbeknownst to her, she let it go.

Maybe it was the sliver of monotony she’d felt in the middle of the Act 1 closer last night. Maybe it was the unwelcomed heat she felt watching one of her costars undress at intermission because damn, when is the last time she’d had sex?, or maybe it was just the clock she’d set for herself chiming incessantly and she thought if she just hit snooze for a night, maybe it’d be okay.

As she was getting ready backstage, applying her makeup in artful strokes in the rehearsed manner she’d done since she could hold her mother’s lipstick, the blurry memories of the night before came rushing back to her with a simple pounding in her head, as if the headache was actually pushing the memory to the forefront of her brain.

“To Ballet D’Amérique, to Europe next month, and to Brooke finally letting her hair out of that tight ass ponytail!” 

One of her fellow dancers, Alyssa, had begun a chorus of laughs in Brooke’s direction as they all raised their glasses in messy unison, laughing without a care in the world. Brooke smiled as she too raised her conservative glass of chardonnay with her fellow dancers, giving them a few warning glances followed by a smile.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like to have fun, she just couldn’t exactly keep up with her fellow girls like she used to, especially considering many of them were in their early twenties. Brooke had watched many of them come and go over the years. Some had gotten caught up in relationships, marrying, having children. Brooke had the occasional hookup here and there, gone on a date or two in cities she couldn’t remember. But nothing stuck. She wasn’t going to be one of the girls that left. She’s not like them. She’s better than them, as she’d let herself believe. She was proud that she had taken care of herself enough to stick it out this long.

So approaching thirty, Brooke decided she’d racked up enough hypothetical universe points to finally let her hair fall by her shoulders. She deserved it.

It’d been so long she wasn’t sure she knew exactly what deserving meant. 

Nonetheless, with a kick of the warm, bitter confidence flung into her throat like it was an anecdote to the poison she’d been drowning in, she let herself flick her hair back in a dramaticized shake, eliciting “oohs” and “ahhs” from her troupe.

“Well you got me out, at least let me do what I do best!”

The girls led Brooke out to the dancefloor, and it was almost as if years of internalized self-doubt and criticism had washed off her shoulders with the warm burn of a stranger’s whiskey. She was dancing like she hasn’t been dancing all her life, like her body could only replace words with less than delicate movement. She was moving her body in positions her classical ballet training would be baffled by, and she loved every second of it. Maybe because she liked the attention from the crowd around her, or maybe she just liked to be free.

She let herself trip, really fall. But this time, no one was there to tell her she needed to fall in line.

Brooke sits in her dressing room and hears over the monitor that they were to be in places in five minutes. She hears the cacophonous “thank you five” coming from all different directions and the room spins around her. She glances down to her foot and over to the pointe shoes beside her dressing table like they’re suddenly the scariest thing she’d ever seen.

“Brooke, you good? You don’t have your tights or anything on yet,” she’d heard Alyssa say, barely making its way through the headache of memories.

“Yeah, yeah… um… Alyssa?” She’d asked, snapping her head to the right, hoping to find her friend there to alleviate some of the questions swirling around her mind. But she was gone.

You’re fine, she thought to herself, almost coming out aloud as a pleaded whisper. She was Brooke. She was healthy. No nights off for 12 years, and tonight was not going to be any different.

She joined the others backstage, giving a light squeeze to her friends’ hands as they took a collective breath, just like they had done for years, every night. If Brooke had known this would be her last time living in the comfort of the tradition she would’ve tried to shut her mind off and savor it. But she didn’t know.

Torn Achilles tendon. Torn Achilles tendon. Torn Achilles tendon.  
She kept saying it over and over out loud to herself as if it would somehow make it go away.

It burned off the tip of her tongue as she delivered the news to her friends. It pounded in her head as she felt the effects of the bottom of the bottle of wine in her apartment. It stabbed her through the chest as postcards came rushing under the door from Paris, London, Stockholm, Helsinki, Oslo -

She felt the twist every second. The harsh strobe of the dance club.

The way she fell.

The way it came flooding back to her in warning the second it was too late in the middle of her pirouette.

She knew it was over, but she didn’t think it’d be so abrupt. She felt like she was watching her world collapse underneath her every time she reached up to grab the glasses on the top shelf. It was like the tops of her feet felt her heartbreak too.

When Brooke was 33 years, 3 months, 19 days and 2 hours old and heard the dizzying ‘ping’ of new emails pouring in, she felt the familiar surge of caffeine kick in from the espresso beside her, giving her a sense of empty adrenaline. She had an appointment with a client at 10am who was seeking representation.

Shortly after Brooke was forced to end her contract with the troupe, she luckily enough had held onto a connection with the director who booked all his dancers through the same talent agency in Chicago, where she found herself residing now. She’d started out as a receptionist, quickly climbing her way to assistant casting director, charming her way through the chain of male superiors and had a comfortable, powerful position in just four years. She had to be proud - she was born to be in control, precise, and poised. But something about it didn’t settle right in her stomach.

Thousands of applicants, young actors, singers, models, and of course, dancers had submitted every day with few even making it to the interview process, likely because they had some type of connection with the agency. Brooke found no satisfaction in turning young people away, and hated herself when she had a particularly cold interaction with a dancer. Young and untouched by the years of work, bright eyed and naiive as Brooke had once been.

But it was her job. Just like dancing had been, ultimately, a job. Put on the tights. The lipstick. Pirouette. Smooth your skirt. 

Hire talent.

“Brooke, your 10am is here,” Brooke’s secretary, Scarlet, had tentatively called into her office after a few knocks. Her promotion was recent, and she could feel the burning glares of the other young women in the office as she strode in every morning. She tried not to let it affect her, as this was the nature of the entertainment world, but she’d be lying if she didn’t feel the waves of isolation she’d fought so desperately to get over.  
Brooke had been so caught up in her work she hadn’t even bothered to glance at the file, complete with headshot and resume beside her desk. She fumbled with papers to make room on the opposite side of the desk, taking a deep breath before hearing the soft click of the door opening. She barely had a second to feel the breath escape her chest as she glanced up from the headshot to the woman in front of her, just as bright eyed and naiive as Brooke expected with this time, instead of a cool chill of resentment it was replaced with a warm rush through her hand, reaching to connect with the girl’s outstretched one in front of her.

“Hi, ma’am, I’m… my name’s Vanessa, it’s nice to meet you.”


	2. burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previous : Brooke's injury had left her thrown into a new career she wasn't sure she was suited for, and suited her perfectly all at once. A client comes in her office named Vanessa. Business as usual.
> 
> Upcoming: Brooke isn't one to lose control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kind words on chapter 1! I'm having a lot of fun in this universe. xoxo

When Brooke Lynn Hytes was 21 years, 0 months, 0 days, 0 hours, and 3 minutes old, she felt the weight of a beautiful woman on top of her for the first time.

It wasn’t exactly glamorous or nearly as polished as she willed her first time to be, and she had certainly not imagined it as alcohol-induced, but it was happening. It was real.   
She was real.

Brooke was working toward her BFA in dance, and this allowed for almost no time to relax, let alone think about any type of human contact that didn’t come from the light brush of her shoulders, willing them back into perfect posture from her dance teacher. Her schedule was tight: 8:00am on the dot for ballet (7:30 to stretch), contemporary at 10:00am (12:00pm lunch), 2:00pm tap, and 5:00pm rehearsal for whatever show she happened to be in at the time, rinse, repeat. But on the eve of her 21st birthday, when she felt her friends murmuring in rehearsal and glancing back with a fit of giggles in Brooke’s direction, she knew something was amiss.

As she walked back to her campus apartment that evening, the chill of an Illinois March brings her to her senses and makes her feel a flush of heart-stopping whirls.  
Any mention of her birthday that day was immediately followed by a knowing glance from one of her dance sisters, and the need for control within Brooke was shuddering at the thought of any unexpected changes.

“Okay, come on, you turn 21 once, you’re not doing that,” her best friend Yvie eagerly pushing her away from the modest champagne toast and movie marathon Brooke had suggested.

“Brooke you’ve got to be kidding me,” Alyssa remarked, barely glancing up from her phone.

“I think you’re all forgetting that it’s MY birthday,” Brooke looked at them with warning, albeit a little hurt they didn’t understand her enough by now to know she wasn’t the type to have a 21st that met society’s checklist. 

“Whatever bitch, suit yourself.”

Yvie’s face softened, if only to tell Brooke it’s okay, I understand, before giving her a light squeeze on the arm and retreating to bed.

Her friend’s face from the night before burned in her brain as she fumbled to get the door open to 11 W Charles Ave (Apt D), suddenly replaced by a half-apologetic smile and an uproar of everything Brooke hadn’t wanted.

She feels the room spin slightly as she feels the vague softness of the “21” sash Alyssa places on her, and looks to find familiarity amongst the faces in the clear fire code violation that was their dingy campus apartment.

If there’s one thing Brooke has never been more thankful for then in that moment - it’s tequila. She lets Yvie mutter an apology in her ear whilst slipping the shot of liquor in her hand, Brooke feeling equally resigned and anxious enough to throw it back. She’s always found alcohol ironically incredibly sobering, just never at the right times.

The night goes as predictably as an episode of The Bachelorette but elicits the same spectrum of surprise and drama from the party guests, and Brooke is even seen losing a layer of clothing (just her sweater, but Alyssa feels she succeeds nonetheless). But it’s all empty. Brooke should feel young and accomplished and proud, but she’s suddenly suffocated by the distant thump of bass and roaring laughter, a familiar symphony she’s always found to break her down in all the ways she’d tried to avoid. She sees someone throw up in her kitchen sink while Yvie is ten feet away, taking a shot off of someone she wasn’t sure she even knew and why would they even let people in their house if they didn’t ask Brooke and suddenly she was outside and had no idea how her feet had lost all communication with the conscious of her brain. It was too much, and the cool night air was enough to elicit a sharp shock through Brooke’s system, fighting against the uncomfortable lack of control brought on by the wavering tequila.

“You smoke?”

Brooke looked to her left to find a girl, alike in build to herself but that was where the list of similarities seemed to stop. She had nearly raven black hair, impossibly long legs painted by dark skin so smooth she seemed to glow in the moonlight of their deck.   
Brooke had never seen her before. And on any other day, in any given minute, she would’ve never let herself slip like this. But she did. 

“Yes,” she relied on the ounce of tequila playing both angel and devil to will her body to find a spot near the girl, intimidated by her beauty but proud enough to exist alongside her.

The girl studied her for a moment, a growing smile suddenly brimming at the edges of her mouth as she slowly retracted her hand, bringing the cigarette away from Brooke.

“No you don’t,” she said simply, even going as far as placing the case back into her purse beside her.

“Do I know you?”

Brooke couldn’t remember if she was a friend of a friend, or a cousin of a guest who wasn’t a friend, it didn’t really carry much weight.

That wasn’t the important part.

“I’m Naomi.”

“Brooke.”

“Brooke like birthday girl Brooke?”

“That’s, uh, yeah” Brooke chuckled, scolding Yvie in her head but simultaneously forgiving her careless planning in favor of her somehow allowing this beautiful woman to make an appearance.

“Shit, maybe you do need a smoke,” Naomi laughed, casually brushing her knee to Brooke’s, and she swears no amount of dancing has ever made her legs feel that on fire.

They talk about everything and nothing, until the casual brushing has them practically begging to move into each other’s laps, casting away glances as guests begin to exit from the party, piling into taxis and obliviously offering varying goodbyes to the birthday girl as they left, unable to identify the situation they were interrupting in their stupors.

“Brooke,” Naomi said lowly and simply, and Brooke felt a shiver go up her spine she swears came from the passing breeze. “You got a boyfriend?”

Brooke’s initial incredulous sputtering of “no’s” slows into a terrified glance in Naomi’s direction, reading her face like she had the answers to the secrets of the universe.

“Relax, baby,” Naomi rubbed a hand on her knee and Brooke tried desperately to shut off the incessant higher, higher, higher that pounded in her head as the alcohol began to wear down. 

When Brooke Lynn Hytes was 12 years, 3 months, and fuck if she knew exactly how long because she thinks she’s always just been that acutely aware - she knew she was gay.

In her brain there was no comparison. A woman’s body was art. It was why all the famous paintings throughout history that are worshiped along the walls in the European cities she longed to trace her fingers across were of women. Women’s skin. Women’s hair. Women’s breasts. 

Women’s bodies moved in all the ways she’d longed to find a rhythm with.

There are certain markers and signs in a young person’s life that point in the direction of sexual preference, she supposed, but to her it was unclear how she could ever live a life that wasn’t dedicated to discovering all the ways a woman’s body could exist in space. Dance. Arch. Scream. Cry.

When she would let her mind paint pictures of women as vivid as the European portraits made with delicate hands, as her own hands drifted to explore her own body she felt like she could see the stars when she felt herself finally release. 

It was freeing. But no one knew that. Until now, she realized.

They had moved inside at some point, Brooke was in a lustful, albeit terrifying haze as she felt herself led into her own room as if she hadn’t been the one living there.  
She wasn’t used to this. She wasn’t used to feeling so out of touch with her own thoughts, her own body. She was always in control.

So when she felt the weight of Naomi’s slender, disgustingly tantalizing figure so impeccable it belonged amongst the works of the collection of paintings she’d formed in her adolescence slide into her lap, she surrendered.

“I’m gonna make you feel good baby, just relax,” Naomi cooed in her ear, and for the first and last time during sex Brooke let herself completely be at her partner’s mercy, relishing in the comfort of her weighing her down and worshiping her with her mouth.

When Brooke Lynn Hytes was 33 years, 3 months, 19 days 2 hours, and 1 minute old age became acutely aware of how she’d never let that feeling of surrender affect her again, even if the warmth that had spread through her body was begging her to act otherwise. 

She pushed the notion from her mind, upholding her poise and motioning for the young girl to take a seat, moving past the initial niceties to look again at her photo. 

“So Vanessa, this headshot -“

“They’re brand new, ma’am,” she interrupted, Brooke torn between being taken aback and impressed by the bold initiative.

Brooke studied her for a moment, carefully eyeing her and calculating every syllable that came out of her mouth.

The girl was striking. She’d seen a lot of beautiful young women saunter in and out of her office but never with the same fervor that Vanessa had. She wore her hair in loose waves around her shoulders, her impossibly deep brown eyes enhanced with a delicate stroke of black on her lid. The modest black of her mock neck dress seemed to scream for air against the delicate dancer’s muscles she carried with her. Her red lips emblazoned against her caramel toned skin that seemed to hold its own in the harsh fluorescence of the casting office. The thick smell of industrial Chicago seemed to fall to the wayside with the light linger of Vanessa’s lavender perfume. Lotion? Shampoo?   
Shit.

“I don’t think they’re right for you,” Brooke spoke, the words stinging in the air. She didn’t like the sound of her voice the moment it came out of her mouth but she needed to say something, anything to get her to snap her back into place. She watched as Vanessa’s face fell and quickly tried to get anything to recover the nervous smile from the brunette.

“But that’s… we can worry about that later, right?” Brooke smiled, waiting until she got one in return. “So tell me about you, why representation, why this agency?”

Brooke knew she was grilling her, and it wasn’t that she liked to see people squirm within her grasp, but rather she thought the added pressure was a necessity. She constantly felt the burning “Brooke, a little straighter,” “Brooke, turn your foot out, darling,” “Brooke, don’t you think you could skip the extra piece?” she’d grown so accustomed to. Being a professional dancer demanded near perfection. She knew it was unfair and unrealistic as she’d gone home and cried about it silently enough times in her life, but Brooke had to endure it. And so would she.

Vanessa takes a breath before pulling her skirt down, folding her hands nervously before beginning.   
“Well, I grew up here. In Chicago. And I uh, I didn’t go to dance school but that don’t, doesn't mean I’m not trained, I’ve been dancing forever,” she babbled on and Brooke looked at her with a glint of knowing.

“Relax, Vanessa, I see your resume here. You seem very talented,” Brooke told her. She glazes over an impressive list for a 22… 23… not-sure-year-old, “But there’s a lot of talented girls that come through here. Can I ask you something?”

Vanessa nodded, plastering on a smile through her cloud of tense anxiety.

“Can I ask how you got this interview?”

She looked pleased at this question, like she had the answer tucked in a zip drive waiting to be extracted from her mind.

“Mr. Matthews has seen me perform before, ma’am. Said I had a lot of potential. Told me he was tired of all the basic ballerina shit, needed some fire,” she told her proudly. Vanessa went on to tell her more about her background, a polished verbal dating profile of dance and life experiences, but Brooke couldn’t hear her. It wasn’t the ballerina comment, she told herself, it was Vanessa. She felt a burning in the back of her throat she couldn’t explain and she cursed herself for it. She was overcome with every awful thing she’d ever been told. Every failure. Every -

“And I promise you I’ll get more headshots, if that’s what you think, I just gotta wait on my paycheck to come through and maybe in a couple of months I can, if you have any suggestions.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” she said suddenly, standing up with a heat shocking her through her body, from the impeccably practiced bun on top her head to the bottoms of her feet.

“I’m sorry, did I do something?” Vanessa looked at her curiously, unsure of her next move.

“Sometimes I just don’t think someone is the right fit, Vanessa. I’m sorry, Scarlet can help validate your parking -”

“Ma’am, I can prove you… prove to you I’m an amazing dancer and I work really hard,” Vanessa trembled, her words shaking the foundation of Brooke’s core.

“I’ll leave you my work email, Vanessa,” her name slipping off her tongue like it was caught every second it was escaping her mouth. She moved towards the door as every inch willed her not to. Resigned, Vanessa followed, softly turning around and reaching to hand her a flyer.

“Come watch me. Come watch me and I promise I won’t bother you no more,” Brooke grabbed the flyer wordlessly, her chest flooding with recognition as she met the smaller girl’s eyes.

With the soft click of the door behind her, Brooke made her way back to her desk with a heavy thud down in her desk chair, the once safe retreat now feeling like a throne of relinquished and unwanted power. She grabbed the near-empty bottle of whiskey in the bottom drawer of her desk, paying no mind to the glowing 10:31 am glowing on her computer screen like a highway caution sign. She took small swig before turning the flyer around in her hand, eyes grazing over it until the blurry letters became clear.

Tonight. 9pm. Pay is donation based. Showcase.

Tonight.

She couldn’t register what her hands were doing before she was reaching on her desk for her phone, desperately looking for a lifeline to save her and give her any excuse not to go.

When Brooke Lynn Hytes was 33 years, 3 months, 19 days, 7 hours, and 19 minutes old, she missed her train stop.

Totally by accident, of course.


	3. glowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previous: Brooke recalls her first time, hurries Vanessa out of her office but is left with a flyer inviting her to her show.
> 
> Upcoming: The Unlikely Trio of friends don't have to twist her arm too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your support! <3  
> Note: I'm basing the auditions Brooke attends off of the annual Unified auditions that aspiring BFA musical theatre/acting students go through which I'm very familiar with, but I'm not certain the recruitment for BFA dance programs are the same.

When Brooke Lynn Hytes was 17 years, 11 months, 3 days, and 1 minute old, she met her best friends.

But she didn’t know that, yet.

She had grown up in Canada, a small suburb outside Toronto with her mom. Her father hadn’t been around much, so she and her mother lived a quiet, conservative life that consisted of pancakes every morning (except Sundays) and dance recitals.

Brooke had known, from the time she was a little girl that the States was where she needed to be if she was going to be a ballerina. Canada had beautiful professional ballet, of course. Much to her mother’s dismay, however, she had her sights narrowed in on exactly what she wanted for herself and her life. 

After some convincing and a little extra work around the house, she and her mother embarked on what Brooke remembers as The Great Audition Tour of 2003. She remembers riding in a plane for the first time, seeing New York City for the first time, and the way it all made her feel so small in a five-foot-eleven frame.

It’s day three, or four, she’s so blindingly exhausted from her anxious stomach keeping her up all night every night to the physical trauma of college dance auditions. She was practiced, she was trained, of course, and her mother made sure her shoulders never fell even for a second as they felt the illustrious buzz of New York when they walked through the city.

“Sit up, Brooke Lynn, you never know who could be watching,” her mother repeated like a mantra as they sat for breakfast each morning. She was always on.

But in the third hour of her fourth (she’s pretty sure) day of auditions, Brooke let out a laugh as she heard the murmurings of the girls beside her.

“I swear to God, I was holding relevé, and it was so fucking loud,” she heard one girl say, blonde and petite, looking almost like she belonged in a beauty pageant against to the stripped away anonymity of the black leotard, pink tights combination that painted the room.

“You farted?!” the other girl, as tall as Brooke but enviably slender with uniquely beautiful features, laughed incredulously, earning a small hit to the leg as the pair leaned over into a side stretch like a seasoned pair of synchronized swimmers.

The other blonde looked around, checking for any onlookers when she locked eyes with Brooke, giving a minuscule smile she tried to hide in the crook of her elbow mid stretch.

The girl looked embarrassed immediately, Brooke instantly correcting her expression.

“I’m so sorry you had to hear that, sis,” the blonde said with a chuckle, the girl beside her still stifling a laugh.

“It happens to the best of us,” Brooke shrugged, unsure whether or not she was safe to join in on the fun. She pressed her luck, happy to feel some of the pressure release from her shoulders for the first time in weeks.

“At least it wasn’t a silent but deadly,” she tried, immediately sending the other two girls into a fit of giggles, careful not to draw extra attention from the fellow auditionees (but failing, somewhat).

“I’m Alyssa, this is Yvie,” the blonde told her.

“Oh, I’m Brooke, are you guys friends?” she smiled, placing a careful strand of her bun that had fallen into her face behind her ear.

“She’s stalking me,” Yvie told her, completely deadpan.

“I am not, I’m not a stalker,” she turned to Brooke, “We met in our hotel night one, and we’ve just kind of hit it off this weekend. You been here all four days?”

Brooke nodded sheepishly before adding with a cautious drop in tone, “Unfortunately.”

“Tell me about it. I literally feel like I could stick my leg in a subway door and it would snap in half,” Yvie added, moving into a middle split with little to know extra effort required, her voice unwavering.

“Well, we got you, you’re one of us now,” Alyssa grabbed her hand with a smile, sharing a knowing glance with Brooke before they heard the boom of the microphone over the loudspeaker, instructing the hundred-plus girls in the room to rise.

That night, after the penultimate day of auditions was completed, Brooke nervously told her mother she had other dinner plans for the evening, that she had made friends. She looked at her mother carefully, expecting the reprimand or warning she’d grown accustomed to. Instead, she was greeted with a half smile, a light touch on the back, and a simple, “Be careful.”

Brooke had spent every night of that trip bee-lining for the hotel by 9:00pm, showered, practiced, and ready for the early AM wake up call. She had barely seen the city, and by the second or third day had begun to forget she was in any place that wasn’t the blinding white walls of a dance studio.

But that night, as she felt the soft red glow of Times Square, authentically American street hot dog in hand with her new American friends, she felt the most prepared she ever had all week. They spent all night running around the city, dancing in subway cars and calling Brooke “Canada” whenever she pointed out something that made the girls giggle. She had friends back home, of course. But not like this. Not so unabashedly carefree and naive.

So when they all tentatively sent each other MySpace messages as they opened their acceptance letters and found that all three of them were accepted to their number one choice school, it felt like pure magic radiated through the computer screens in all three ends of North America.

Alyssa and Yvie were her closest confidants, her mirrors, and her worst critics all at the same time. They were there for her through the trauma of her injury and did their best to remind her of who she was whenever they got the chance, even though Brooke hadn’t done so much as a twirl since it happened. Alyssa had worked with her on and off for years at Ballet D’Amerique, and now was working as a dance instructor in New York, while Yvie had been successfully working in Vegas shows for years, creating the perfect excuse for a girl’s trip weekend there every year. 

They’d all changed, naturally. Brooke’s gentle, cold exterior she adorned now was different from the softness of her bright-eyed college days, but leave it to Alyssa and Yvie to bring out the parts of her she needed constant reminding were there.

So when Brooke Lynn Hytes was 33 years, 3 months, 19 days, 7 hours, and 7 minutes old, sitting on her red line train, the familiar whirl of the Chicago transit easing as the train car rose above ground, she pulled out her phone once again.

She’d contemplated calling them in her office earlier that morning, but that desire dissipated the second she’d shoved the flyer into the depths of her purse, as if it had some Mary Poppins transfigurative ability to make it cease to exist. But as she sat now, foot incessantly shaking as she sat cross-legged, uncomfortable and cramped in her seat, the air full of post-work bliss on a Friday evening, her heart never stopping to catch up to her breath in their ongoing footrace, she texted them.

To: Yves and Lyss

_ B: I have a problem.  _

_ Y: ugh i’m about to go on :(( _

_ A: Hi how are ya to you too, Canada!! _ _  
_ _ B: Sorry I know it’s been a while. _

_ Y: i miss you bitches. _

_ Y: got some mad D last night. forgot to text, sorry bout that _

_ Y: he reminded me of greg from freshman year. but like.. not as high _

_ B: Ew. _

_ Y: sorry brooke catch me up later, dollface, i love you _

_ A: Weed Greg!! haha _

_ A: Brooke, call me bitch!! _

Brooke cracked a smile and let it melt into the phone, calming the repetitive movement of her leg. With a sigh she reached into her purse the best way she could, shocking her body when her finger caught the edge of the flyer like it was begging for her attention. She grabbed her headphones, gingerly popping them into her ears as she moved to FaceTime her friend, forever thankful for the excuse to hear her friend’s voice. 

“Okay, what’s the tea bitch?” Brooke heard suddenly, acutely aware of the burning glances in her direction.

“Shit, hold on,” she fumbled with the bluetooth, mouthing a few “sorry’s” around her as if anyone had given any real mind. It was the Chicago transit, she was hardly what anyone was looking at, and although Brooke was hardly one of the warm and gentle souls her home country had been known to produce, apologizing was a knee-jerk reaction she couldn’t shed.

“I don’t even feel bad for you, Miss Airpods,” Alyssa scuffed, before smiling at her brightly, simultaneously distracted but fully attentive to Brooke at the same time.

“What’re you up to?” Brooke asks, before paying closer attention to the shadows in the mirror evidently behind her. “Wait, Lyss, are you teaching right now?” 

“Yeah, they’re taking a little juice break, it’s fine, what’s up? No time for the how was your day blah blah bullshit let’s go!”

Brooke shook her head gently with a heavy side of  _ you’re nuts _ ,  _ and I love you _ , before breathing out a sigh that’d been trapped in her for hours. 

“So I turned away another dancer today, and I don’t even know why, she just… made me feel… I don’t know.”

“ - Horny?” Alyssa finished, Brooke laughed, looking around her on the off chance of another headphone malfunction.

“No, I don’t know, just… weird. Like I suddenly wasn’t me, anymore. And not in a bad way, which is worse. And then she invited me to see her show tonight, to watch her dance, and it’s like part of me knows I should stand my ground because we’ve already gotten so many new dancers this month from other agents in the office and I already said no and what kind of talk will there be if Ice Queen Brooke Hytes is seeing little dance shows around the city like she has nothing else to do with her Friday night, which by the way, she doesn’t because she hasn’t gotten laid in like, 3 years, and lives alone with her fucking cats but no one can know that or else no one in the industry will take me seriously because I’m not even a dancer anymore so what do I even know and what the fuck do I do,” Brooke realizes she’s not even looking in Alyssa’s direction when she finishes with a huff, feeling the unfamiliar slump of her shoulders.

“Okay, Canada, breathe for me baby,” she looks at her through the glow of the screen, her eyes piercing her from miles away. She waits till she has Brooke’s eyes before telling her sternly, “you are a dancer. And a beautiful one at that. So don’t you think for a minute that part of you has gone away. And secondly, bitch, you need to get laid. Go fuck this girl, please, for my sake,” she gives her a knowing glance.

  
Brooke takes a breath, doing her best to muster a smile. “I don’t know her. And I certainly can’t do that. Can your kids hear you saying all this?”

“Their moms are still paying me, so it really doesn’t seem to matter all that much, do it?” she laughs. “Listen sweetie. It’s gonna be fine. Just sneak in the back, pull out one of your Gi-von-bur-berry-froo-froo sunglasses I know you have all incognito like. That way she doesn’t gotta see you there. And please report back, okay?” Alyssa turns her head to face to the side of the camera, looking out at her class and raising her voice. “Brooke should go, right girls?” 

Brooke couldn’t help but roll her eyes with a laugh as she heard the thundering chorus of “yeah!” in only a way six-year-olds can.

“See bitch? I gotta go, but I love you honey,” Alyssa blows her a kiss, winking as she ends the call, Brooke feeling the lingering click of her tongue as she stares at the homepage on her phone, once carrying her best friend inside of it. She looks up, taking the headphones out, and feels the screeching halt as the red line stops at Fullerton, a few blocks from Brooke’s high-rise apartment. She can feel the soft carpet of her bedroom phantom-brush against her feet as she wills herself to stand, but locks her knees as they’re set into place, the train going as soon as it stops past the comfort of her little corner of Chicago.

Her legs were moving before her mind was, like her body knew what it needed before she did (it always had), and she found herself clutching the flyer as she stood in front of the advertised address. 

The building was hardly anything to look at, in fact Brooke had done several double takes before finally deciding that yes, this was the place, but it was in high contrast to the modest theatre she had been expecting. It almost gave off a thick air of mystery and palpable intrigue, and Brooke braced herself as she slipped on the sunglasses and walked in. 

She walked down a narrow hallway lit only by a small red exit sign, the only noise coming from the reverberated click of her heels and the muffled pre-show music and murmuring in the background.

After turning a corner she guessed was where she needed to be, entering a maze she was far too lost in to begin with, she barely registers a girl in a less than decorous bodysuit collecting donations, her eyes growing wide as Brooke drops in two one hundred dollar bills like they’re pennies in a fountain, her eyes locked ahead of her as she enters in the performance space. It’s a typical Chicago, rent-by-the-hour black box space, modestly filled with decoration and filled with rows of seats. Brooke’s thankful for the crowd that’s generated already, carefully slipping into an inconveniently placed (but conveniently for Brooke) stage left corner seat that slips out of the glow of the followspot on stage. She curses her deep-seated punctuality as the time of 8:48pm glows on her phone screen, and slips off her sunglasses, looking around casually. As she takes a breath, she’s finally aware of her surroundings, and namely who she’s surrounded by. She’s known growing up in the entertainment world that oftentimes small-venue performances such as these generally are only put on for resume building and so that people like Brooke can attend. On any given night you could have three people to a full house and it’s all considered normal. But as Brooke looks around to the people that surround her, she’s overcome by the unlikely undercurrent of excitement in the air.

There’s a fog machine intermittantly blowing the thick clouds into the already-stuffed room, and Brooke’s thankful for the particular blanket to her lungs giving her something to drown in. 

_ Of course it’s popular, _ she thinks,  _ I’d want to see Vanessa too _ .

She sees people of all walks of life, but a dedicated concert-like mosh pit of men surround the stage itself, and Brooke has to bite her tongue at the lack of etiquette. She knew this wasn’t a ballet performance, but it sure as hell wasn’t a display at the Chicago Zoo.

Her phone buzzes in her lap, giving her the reminder to silence it, the time glowing 8:59pm as she takes one more glance at her notifications, quickly opening one from Alyssa to ground her.

From: Lyss

_ A: Bitch you’re motha fuckin Brooke Lynn Hytes, just like your momma say (maybe not the motha fuckin part) but you got this!! You’re gonna be just fine. That bitch is lucky she gets to be eye-fucked by you. ;) _

Brooke smiles, slipping it into her void purse but this time so she can save it for later. 

The lights begin to dim, and her stomach flips like it did before a dance recital, as if she were one of Pavlov’s dogs salivating at the ding of a bell. 

With another gratuitous gust of fog, three girls come out in the dim, low lighting as the soft bump of a familiar jazz tune begins to play. There’s a few faint whistles of recognition from the audience, but nothing matching the energy of the pre-show volume they’d been living in before. Brooke recognized the song from one of her freshman dance classes, feeling the shadow pain of her teenage pointe shoes as she sees the figures enter the stage, each of the girl’s faces concealed by a Bob Fosse inspired black-brimmed hat. They’re snapping along to the rhythm, clad in full trench coats with the peak of a fishnet tight peeping out below the hem as they straddle individual bar stools. While it was a departure from her traditional eye, it wasn’t anything groundbreaking. They were in Chicago, after all, and Roxie Hart’s name had been spilled far too often for Brooke’s, and just about every talent agent’s in the city’s liking. 

She cranes her neck, still not completely able to make out which one was Vanessa, the black of the coats swallowing the figure of the dancers. They’re all talented, clearly limber albeit a little traditionally stiff in style. As she watches them move from jazz kicks to jazz squares she’s hit with the sudden pang of realization that there’s no way she’ll be able to sign this girl, and she’s even thinking about leaving at intermission because the thought of lying to the poor girl when she gets that follow up email a week later is simply too hard to stomach and oh -

_ Oh.  _

First she hears it, then she sees it: the deafening beat of the bass, the inharmonious uproar of cheers and applause, the soft thud of the trench coats hitting the ground.

Any doubt she had finding Vanessa was relieved in an instant as she stepped out to take center stage, a mass of hands clawing at her feet, revealing her glowing skin in the flashing club-like trance of lights, wearing nothing but a small red bodysuit, dangerously sheer and lacy along her mid section. The girls behind her were wearing similar ensembles, coated in black and white, but Vanessa stood front and center, moving her hips impossibly slow and tantalizing to the beat. Brooke doesn’t know the song, and it doesn’t matter. The music radiating from the delicate trace of Vanessa’s inner thighs as she moves into the splits, and effortlessly steps out of them and into her next move and her next move and her next move could move mountains. The men in the front now suddenly became Brooke’s kindred spirits as she watched them wave one’s at her, swallowing back a bitter taste in her mouth as she watched in slow motion: Vanessa grabbed one of the men’s hands, sensually pulling him on stage, her finger light touches making it evident he was doing all the work to hoist himself up. 

  
  


Vanessa looks powerful, endearing and dominating at the same time as she pushes him down into the stool, his eyes locked on her like he suddenly didn’t know how to use words anymore.

Brooke wasn’t sure she did either.

She works her magic on him like its a practiced spell, bending, arching her back, all while flawlessly executing technique Brooke’s Ballet D’Amerique troupe couldn’t dream of doing. Brooke swears she feels her breath leave her body as she leaves him high and dry after moving to kiss him on the lips, lingering enough to make the whole room want her more than they already did (if that was even possible) before moving away with a snap, wiping her bottom lip with her thumb as she walked away, finishing her number. 

The millisecond between the end of the song and the audience reaction is tangible - Brooke swears she can feel everyone’s heartbeat in tandem before it’s simply too overwhelming to handle. She doesn’t even notice when she’s on her feet, slipping into the group-think of the crowd and losing herself in the moment.

Vanessa looks out at the crowd, smiling, blowing kisses, absolutely eating up every drop of praise the audience has to give her. Brooke, in any other given moment would be shaking her head, feeling herself collapse, feel terribly inadequate, or any delectable entree featuring all three. 

But she was mesmerized. Vanessa’s eyes were sparkling under the harsh lights, the red of her costume so commanding it’s like she was daring the crowd to stop. 

Her eyes scanning. Her eyes.

Fuck.

It’s brief, but it’s enough. Their eyes meet, and Brooke’s body once again has her moving, anywhere, far, far away, thanking her photo-oriented memory as she once again navigates the delicate maze of the building that’s now become her sacred alter. 

She doesn’t stop until she feels the rush of cold air, the whirling of the red line train, and the soft carpet of her bedroom. 

Brooke clicks off her phone by her bed, the familiar glow softening for the night.

But no sooner than she sets it down is she ripping it from its resting spot, eyes glazing over the email she hadn’t dared believe would come so soon.

**From:** vanessamateo@hotmail.com

**To:** brookehytes@matthewsagency.com

_ Ms. Hytes, _

_ I’ll see you Monday?  _

_ Xo, _

_ Vanessa _

**Author's Note:**

> I was definitely imagining Peggy Lee's "Fever" & "Taste" by Betty Who. Just a lil nugget, feel free to take it or leave it ;)


End file.
